


I do not ask to the night explanations (for faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens)

by Mozzarella



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bullying, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Hate to Love, Homophobia, Identity Issues, Identity Reveal, Love/Hate, M/M, Masturbation, Nothing too major just a lot of sad drunk Thranduil, Poetry, Secret Identity, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2783990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozzarella/pseuds/Mozzarella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas wants to marry a poet, who loves him enough to write him into immortal words. </p><p>It’s a pipe dream, one that pales in the face of his high school life. He hates his best friend’s other best friend, fucks it up with the school’s popular crowd, has a few major crises along the way—but the love notes left in his locker, written in comforting, unassuming poetry, helps a lot.</p><p> If he could just find out who his secret admirer is, maybe things might just start to look up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was an entry for Gigolas Big Bang 2014. I cannot for the life of me remember why I was never able to post it, but it might have something to do with having no artist and missing the deadline and still having school requirements back then? I dunno. Something happened, I don't remember, but I feel like people ought not to miss out on the story anyway! 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy it!

Legolas had a couple of life goals—tucked into the back of his mind like a secret, which they would be until someone asked him about them.

 

Few people did. Tauriel was one, back when he was pining over her and she was completely and utterly oblivious. That was torture in itself, and Legolas was glad they were just friends now. None of that 'unrequited love' BS he had been spouting to himself at three in the morning. He was happy to have Tauriel as a friend.

 

She used to hold the title of best friend until she started hanging out more and more with that mad archer boy with the stubble (Kili would complain about not being able to grow a proper beard like the rest of his family, while Legolas seethed at the fact that he could barely grow two hairs on his chin) from the strangely insular Durin clan that lived up north, a couple of blocks from Legolas' village.

 

Now it was Aragorn who held the title. He never asked about Legolas' life goals. He had this mildly annoying habit of guessing them (and more often than not, guessing them right) when he was bored, stating them like facts (which they usually were) and getting Legolas to hit him upside the head.

 

One of those life goals was marrying a poet.

 

It was a silly, impractical goal, he knew. His father would have a few words to say about that, but it wasn't as though Legolas told him about his fancies. They were close, but a teenager is inclined to his own secrets, and that was one of Legolas' own.

 

There was something to it, though—something appealing about a spouse (man or woman, he wasn't picky) who would whisper lines of Neruda to him; _(Tomorrow we will only give them / a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf / which will fall on the earth / like if it had been made by our lips / like a kiss which falls / from our invincible heights)_ who would wax romantic on and on about him, about them; who he could listen to for hours on end—just the sweet voice, the steady cadence and the feeling that came with every word.

 

Even if not a poet by trade—much preferable, in fact, since he inherited quite a bit of pragmatism from his father and the green energy business he ran—Legolas wanted that. He wanted someone who could touch his heart, who he could touch in turn. Someone who would look at him and see beauty, see strength, see someone they could see themselves spending the rest of their life with. Someone who wouldn't leave.

 

A silly life goal, but it stayed there, all the same, in the back of his mind where it would stay for a long time coming.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn't that Legolas ever regretted having Aragorn as a best friend—Aragorn was great! Absolutely great. Fun to be around, wise, smart, and just as intolerant of stupidity as Legolas was. So it defied all reason why Aragorn chose Gimli as his other best friend (and it took a few hundred conversations for Aragorn to convince Legolas that yes, they were _both_ his best friends, they ranked equal in his heart of hearts, and if they couldn't stand each other then he'd just go over to Arwen's and leave them to sort things out on their own). 

 

Alright, so Gimli wasn't an idiot. Legolas might not admit it immediately, but being forced to spend time around the guy when Aragorn insisted on a group activity showed him at least that much.

 

Legolas had no hatred for Durins in general, but there was bad blood between Gimli's dad (and Thorin Oakenshield, Kili's uncle and apparent head of the clan) and Legolas' father Thranduil. It was a long time ago, but it seemed like some Durins were prone to holding grudges, and Legolas' first meeting with Gimli set the mood for all their interactions thereafter.

 

That is, competitive, antagonistic, and rude.

 

Insults were their customary greetings, and most of their conversations were rife with them, if not about the topic they were on. With Aragorn between them, they almost had something of a rapport—good, flowing conversation between the three of them, but the two of them alone made for a volatile combination.

 

Back in elementary school, Legolas remembered one memorable day he and Gimli got into a fistfight—the one time Legolas was suspended from school for fighting. They weren't used to each other yet, and insults bit harder than either had intended.

 

Now, insults were a norm, and they were too used to them to be affected anymore. It was almost like friendship, and Legolas could almost convince himself he didn't really hate Gimli.

 

They were just so different though.

 

Where Legolas was extremely particular (fussy, said Aragorn) about certain things—like his looks, his room, the general state of his life (growing up with Thranduil as a father had its own lessons to teach), Gimli was more rough-and-ready, and like most Durins, was particular in certain things—not including appearance. Why else would he put up with such a scraggly beard, when he did so much work with his hands that involved—well, fire?

 

Sometimes, when he and Aragorn dropped by Gimli's place to pick him up before school, Gimli would come running out with soot on his face and in his beard. Legolas had lost a lot of clean handkerchiefs to the cause of making him look at least vaguely presentable, but he thought it was worth the effort when Gimli would swallow his pride and accept them without any of the biting comments Legolas was used to.

 

He didn't always get them back, but it wasn't like they were salvageable anyway. And it was one of the few things that helped them along in their quest to become friends (for Aragorn's sake, at least) so Legolas couldn't complain.

 

And if he had more handkerchiefs than the average teenager (considering what average teens were like, Legolas' number didn't seem so gratuitous in comparison), well, no one had to know. At least Bilbo would be proud of him.

 

Bilbo was Frodo's uncle, and a well-respected fantasy author who wrote a good number of young adult books—contemporary to Funke, Pullman, and Stroud, Legolas would insist. There was a truth to Bilbo's writing that Legolas wished he could emulate, though stories—fantasy or otherwise—didn't come to Legolas as easily as they did the great Bilbo Baggins.

 

Mostly, Legolas did poetry.

 

Not  _good_ poetry, he was sure. He railed against the angsty teen poet cliché that he knew he was becoming, but the only words that came to him were melancholic and old-sounding.

 

 

_To the sea, to the sea! The white gulls are crying,_

_The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying._

_West, west away, the round sun is falling,_

_Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling,_

_The voices of my people that have gone before me?_

 

And such. Embarrassing, really. Not the kind of thing he shared lightly.

 

There was only one person he showed his work to, and that was Gran Galadriel.

 

Gran wasn't his grandmother, though he was just as close to her as Arwen and the twins—her grandchildren by blood, as well as with Haldir, a distant relation who Legolas attended school with (they used to get along, but Haldir was a bit of a prick—proud, Legolas amended. He was proud), who was a year above him and a senior besides.

 

Gran had this weird habit of knowing exactly what you were thinking (a habit that Aragorn probably inherited from her, notwithstanding the fact that he was  _adopted_ ) by just looking at you, and had convinced Legolas to show her his “songs”, as she called them. 

 

She'd look down at the pages like she was deciphering some kind of spell (she was so beautiful, and age had only made her more so, her white hair like its own source of light, her eyes still terribly bright and piercing) and she would smile, and rhyme with him as he read it out to her by her request.

 

_Legolas Greenleaf long under tree_

_In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!_

_If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,_

_Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more.'_

 

she had recited when he was done. He wrote down her little poem, right as she decided to sleep, in that sudden, spontaneous way old people seemed to have mastered, and Legolas was ushered away. “You'll have to wait another day to visit,” the nurse in the home bade, and Legolas would wait for the next time he could come around again.

 


	2. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cold and wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trash and this is my trash high school AU   
> That's all I have to say

He supposed he could mark the very moment his life began its slow (painstakingly slow) downward spiral at the party at Lorien.

 

Gran owned Lorien in name, but from the classy, private function hall it used to be (function house was more like, fully equipped and ready to rent out), it was converted into the hottest (and most expensive) hangout in the village, near single-handedly by Haldir himself.

 

Haldir was a senior—but Legolas was sure that if he'd been a sophomore, he still would have had more sway in the school than half the upperclassmen who preceded him. He was smart, he was proud, he was handsome, rich, and entirely too vicious for public high school—but maybe that was his game all along. Live like the wolf among sheep he was.

 

And how did Legolas know all this? Because Haldir did what any powerful, despotic teen in a small town would do. He formed a clique.

 

His clique wasn't so much a group of friends as it was a gathering of assets, with Haldir putting together some of the school's social butterflies—the popular kids, mostly blond, mostly rich, all good-looking and terribly, disgustingly shallow. And out of all of them, Legolas was the oddest man out—which was to say, not that odd at all. Apart from his love of poetry (which no one knew about) and his friendship with Aragorn (which people gave a free pass because he was dating Arwen and had friends in her twin brothers, who were passably high on the social ladder), Legolas was pretty much just like the rest of them. He was choosy with what he wore, what he did, what he ate, what he looked like. He wouldn't consider himself vain—not with half a dozen other teens who seemed only to care about their appearances hanging around him all the time—but he  _did_ have an image to maintain. 

 

The group called themselves the Lorien group, for lack of better name, since people knew them best for the parties. Half the group, Legolas included, was on the archery team, and that night, someone (drunk off their ass, Legolas was sure) got it in his head that using the hanging plant above the dance hall as target practice was a good idea.

 

Legolas, softened by some of the strongest wine Lorien had on hand, couldn't even be bothered to stop them.

 

“Come on, Legs!” Gaerdir pressed. “I know you can do it. Just try it out!” 

 

“No, Gaer,” Legolas said, trying and failing to shake the other guy off his shoulders. “God, leave me alone, will you? I am not shooting arrows at a damn plant hanging above drunk people's heads.” 

 

“When did you become such a wuss? You're one of the best shots on the team. Do it, man.” 

 

“No, man,” Legolas slurred mockingly. “I won't.” 

 

The wine was stronger than he thought, since Legolas couldn't remember how he ended up in the pool.

 

Wait. Yes, that was it.

 

He was standing aside, alone, while the music and the noise went on in the hall, the bass boosted amps sending strokes like a heartbeat up Legolas' feet, even from far away.

 

He heard Gaer and the asshats (as he'd dubbed them, right at that very moment) laughing, but paid them no heed until he heard an angry yell above the laughter.

 

It was Kili—Tauriel's sophomore boyfriend, being carried along by his arms and legs by a laughing gaggle of drunk teens. Before Legolas could even register what was happening, they were swinging him like a sack and throwing him into the empty pool, eliciting peals of laughter from the not-so-empty poolside.

 

He spluttered and splashed, which only made everyone laugh harder, and nearly half-drowned (though it seemed like only Legolas could see that) he grabbed hold of the poolside and spat out the water he'd been choking on just moments ago.

 

When he was sure the brunette was safe, Legolas strode over to where the asshats were laughing their heads off.

 

“What the fuck were you idiots thinking!?” he yelled first, startling a few passers by. “You nearly killed the poor guy!”

 

“Lighten up, Legolas! It was just a joke.” 

 

“The only joke here is that your mothers were stupid enough to have you! All of you. You think almost drowning someone is funny!?” Legolas shouted, noting that the conversation on the poolside was dying down and he was becoming a spectacle. 

 

Kili was staring from the poolside ladder, some other Durins—his brother Fili, and the freshman Ori—coming over to help him, staring wide eyed at Legolas' outburst.

 

Gaer looked at him with a vicious gleam in his eyes. “I dunno, Legolas, you tell me.”

 

And then Legolas was pushed, arms pin-wheeling almost comically as he broke the surface of the water, just as Kili had done before him.

 

And when he came up for air, all he could hear was laughter. Laughter like a thousand bees stinging, laughter from people who confirmed that yes, apparently, almost drowning someone was pretty damn funny.

 

Whatever dignity he had left, he preserved as he got out of the water, dripping all over, not a single inch of his clothes or hair left dry.

 

When he saw Haldir looking on, not laughing, but not doing much of anything—only shaking his head, Legolas felt betrayed. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it sure wasn't that.

 

Even the Durins were out of sight, wherever they'd gone, and with Aragorn away for the night, Legolas had no support whatsoever, alone in a crowd of judging teens who laughed as he entered the dance floor, the only way to the stairs up to the rooms.

 

It was the worst six minutes of Legolas' high school life, that walk.

 

Much of what came next was the same—Legolas dried off alone (his clothes still uncomfortably damp and his hair still a mess at the end of it), he came down the stairs alone (though he could hear people whispering behind his back), he went home alone (a long walk without a shared car).

 

Halfway down the road, the rumble of a motorcycle sounded and slowed until he looked up and saw that the rider had stopped for him.

 

“This is the absolute worst time for anyone to be mugging me, so...” he began, pausing when the rider took off his helmet and revealed a familiar head and chin of shaggy red hair. 

 

“Yeah well it's not like you look like you're carrying a lot to begin with anyway,” Gimli said bluntly. “Fili, Kili, and Ori told me what happened.” 

 

“You were at the party?” 

 

“I came over there to tell them that if they didn't get their asses back home, Thorin and Ori's brother Dori would find out they snuck into a party without permission, in the village, no less. I got what happened to Kili. Did you really stand up for him?” 

 

“Fat lot of good that did me,” Legolas said, spreading his arms and waving sardonically. 

 

“You drunk?” 

 

“Not after my impromptu bath. Let's just say that woke me up better than any hangover cure,” Legolas snapped. 

 

Gimli looked him up and down.

 

“It's cold out.”

 

“I noticed.”

 

“Come on,” Gimli said. “Before you kill yourself.” 

 

“I am not getting on that beaten up old death trap,” Legolas said slowly, every word dedicated to eyeing each part of the motorcycle distastefully, “and letting you kill me before the cold does.”

 

Gimli's only response was to throw his heavy jacket onto Legolas' head, mussing his already ruined hair even more.

 

“Thanks,” Legolas said with as much venom as he could, through decidedly gritted teeth, though he was genuinely grateful as he slipped on the jacket and found it both toasty from the woollen inner lining and from Gimli's residual body heat, the smell of the smithy subtle under the collar. 

 

It wasn't a bad smell, and Legolas got quite a bit of it when he finally slipped behind Gimli, his hands braced behind him.

 

“If you've never ridden before, you'll just fall sitting that way,” Gimli said. “Come on. Arms round me.” 

 

“So this was your plan all along,” Legolas said dryly, letting Gimli guide his hands around his middle. “To get my hands on you.” 

 

“In your dreams, princess,” Gimli said, without much venom. “Now hold on.” 

 

The wind was biting, but the ride wasn't too long. Legolas' hands were only beginning to freeze up by the time they got to the gates of his father's enormous house. Quite suddenly, Legolas felt self-conscious. There was a reason he always accompanied Aragorn to Gimli's. If he could help it, he wanted as few of his friends and schoolmates to see his house, though the Lorien group had seen it often enough through Haldir's unflappable influence. It was enormous by most standards, and much to big for two people living alone apart from the staff. Legolas hated being associated with his house—and it happened often enough to grate on him for so long.

 

“Huh. So this is your place.” 

 

“My dad's place,” Legolas corrected. 

 

“If it's this big, why do we always hang out at Aragorn's?”

 

“I don't... like too many people knowing about it. They always make a big deal out of it, then expect me to throw some wild parties whenever ada goes on a holiday.” 

 

“Geez, princess, I'm not gonna judge you for your dad's house,” Gimli said, noting his tone. “Relax.” 

 

“Thanks for driving me home,” Legolas said awkwardly, not sure how to express the sentiments of gratitude and goodbye properly—at least, not around Gimli. 

 

“Right, right. Don't worry about it. We're supposed to be sort of like kind of like friends, after all,” Gimli said, his jesting tone lightening Legolas' mood considerably. 

 

“Your jacket,” Legolas said, about to take it off. 

 

“Hey, it's not like you and Aragorn don't see me every weekday anyway. Keep it. Hold onto it till Monday, but for god's sake, if you're gonna wash it, don't use scented soaps.”

 

“I'll keep that in mind,” Legolas said, unable to hold back a grin. The security guard rang the gate open, and Legolas slipped inside, shutting it as per protocol to lock it again. “Thanks again,” he said through the bars. “I owe you.”

 

“You owe me squat. Just get me the jacket back in one piece and we'll call it even,” Gimli said amiably. 

 

And though the night was chilly, Legolas stayed at the gate until Gimli and his roaring motorcycle were out of sight, tail light disappearing over the road.

 


	3. The Trustworthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Legolas learns who his real friends are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It remains Teen Rated although this chapter has a masturbation scene at the beginning. Because that's a thing that teens do :)) so yeah.
> 
> Warnings for bullying and slurs.

That night, Legolas jacked off—not to anything in particular, just the loosest of ideas, faceless, nameless fantasies and fabricated romances. It wasn't until the peak that the faceless fantasy took form, and the name that passed his lips as he orgasmed was a familiar—if unexpected—one. And he lay back, staring at the ceiling for a good thirty minutes in shock, before reaching out for the jacket hanging on the back of the chair by the bed, laying it under his head (enough that he could smell the smoky scent under the collar) and jerking off again, fervently, with a name, a smell, an image, a fabricated sound, and the memory of a firmly muscled belly on his mind.

 

* * *

 

 

The letters were spray painted in bloody red, dripping swipes over the door of his locker, long since dried but no less accusing, a snapped cell picture of him soaked to the bone and dripping wet as he crossed the floor to get to the bedrooms.

 

The paint read WET FAG, AND Legolas stared at the words, tongue passing over his teeth, his face carefully schooled. Aragorn grasped his shoulder from behind. “Arwen's got acetone. We can take it off easy,” he said levelly.

 

Legolas breathed deeply, nostrils flaring. “It was never a secret,” he said. “But it's the most convenient excuse they can think of to condemn me.”

 

“It's not like you don't have their secrets too,” Gimli said from the other side, knocking his knuckles against the locker before ripping the photo from its perch. “This is nothing.”

 

“He's right,” said Aragorn. “This is nothing. But if it turns into something...”

 

Legolas grasped Aragorn's hand, the grip reassuringly strong. “Thank you. And you too, Gimli,” he added easily. Gimli shrugged. “I'm sure they'll clean this mess up by lunchtime. Meanwhile, I've got a hunch. See you both later.”

 

“Don't break too many skulls,” Aragorn bade, and they parted ways for class.

 

* * *

 

 

That day was, in the very least, a trial. Legolas schooled his features and kept his head held high, but he wasn't deaf to the muffled laughter from behind, or the muttered judgements that he didn't bother to turn his head to address.

 

Some said he ruined the party. Others remembered and shared his little dip in the pool. A fair threw his sexuality around like an accusation, and whatever immunity he'd had before disappeared entirely as he was elbowed in the halls—whether by accident or by design, he could barely tell.

 

Arriving at the lunch room was hell. A hundred or so judging eyes were on him almost all at once, some of them inquisitive and the other ones feigning knowledge. He didn't even spare a glance at where he knew the Lorien group would be sitting—he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. They weren't worth it, and it wasn't like he didn't have real friends anyway.

 

The moment he left the food line, he was shoved so hard he dropped his tray.

 

“Oops, sorry about that!” said the least genuine voice Legolas had ever heard, and just seconds after, as he was picking up what was salvageable, he heard an even louder clatter, the thump of a heavy body colliding with the floor, and an exclamation of “Oops! Sorry about that,” from a very familiar voice.

 

“You're not gonna get the pasta off the floor,” said Kili, helping Legolas with the rest of his meal. “You okay?”

 

Behind the brunette, his brother Fili (senior year, and well-respected for it and his near-royal bearing) was doing a good job staring down the meathead who'd shoved him.

 

“Scamper,” Fili ordered, and the other fled, counting heads and realizing that three was too much for him to handle.

 

“Don't need you to fight my battles,” Legolas muttered as Fili helped him up and Kili carried his tray.

 

“Wasn't going to,” Fili said. “Just paying back a favour. I mean, you kinda did us a favour over the weekend—I mean, you did Kili a favour, but we look after our own.”

 

“Is that the Durin family motto, then?” Legolas sighed, waving half-heartedly at Aragorn as they approached the lunch table.

 

“Used to be _kill all your enemies_ but we had to keep up with the times,” Kili said, smiling widely, his expression almost... encouraging. Legolas had never given Kili the time of day (and really, after the whole débâcle with Tauriel, it was to be expected), but the dark-haired Durin/Oakenshield seemed genuinely interested in becoming friends. At least, more than his brother, who looked at Legolas coolly, assessing his worth the way Legolas noticed a lot of Durins had mastered.

 

Kili put his tray down on the table where Aragorn sat, his arm around Arwen. The two greeted Legolas warmly, Arwen drawing him into a hug and undoubtedly sending death glares over his shoulder at whomever was looking. When Arwen got angry, people knew it was time to run, so by the time Legolas sat down, there was no one staring at him or their table, quite suddenly engrossed with food or conversation.

 

Fili and Kili left after saying their hellos and goodbyes, and Legolas slumped down over the table, his breaths coming quick though he tried to slow them.

 

“Breathe, Legolas. Breathe. Pretend you're about to make a shot. Visualize the target. You're all right. You're fine,” Aragorn coaxed, and Legolas' breaths settled, his anxiousness ebbing away.

 

“I can't do this,” he said between breaths. “I can't take this. This isn't fair.”

 

“No, it isn't. But it's happened, and there's no changing it. They'll forget about it soon. It'll all be over soon,” said Aragorn.

 

Legolas smiled, though it was more a snarl than anything. “Where did you learn to bullshit your friends so thoroughly?”

 

“My friends are idiots,” Aragorn said, elbowing Legolas in the side and eliciting a laugh. “They need their daily dose of bullshit to survive.”

 

“Ah, and I suppose you're the considerate and wonderful friend who'll give it to them?”

 

“Damn right I am.” Aragorn tapped him on the back, and looked around, his eyes assessing. “Have you seen Gimli?” he asked absently.

 

“Not since this morning. What did he do?” Legolas asked curiously. Quite briefly he remembered the week nights he'd spent with his nose buried in Gimli's jacket, but his expression betrayed nothing—a trick his father had taught him long ago.

 

“Said he had to take care of something. Ah, speak of the devil. Gimli!”

 

Legolas moved aside, and Gimli ended up across from Arwen, sitting by Legolas in a huff.

 

“What did you do?” Legolas demanded.

 

“I like how you assume I did something just 'cause I arrived late to lunch,” Gimli said dryly. “That's profiling, you know.”

 

“You're a comedian,” Legolas said, shaking his head. “You Durins are pretty quick to jump the gun, you and your cousins. I don't want any trouble, so don't go picking fights for my sake.”

 

“I like how you also assume I'd do something stupid for your sake. Don't worry, _Leggy,_ I don't need to be told not to waste my time.”

 

It was just one of a thousand remarks, something that Legolas was supposed to be used to, but it stung—more so after the weekend, after he thought he knew who he could trust and depend on when things got rough.

 

Not a fucking Durin, apparently, much as he'd hoped.

 

“Wouldn't want you to waste any more your precious time, then,” Legolas said bitterly, rising from his seat. “I _sincerely_ apologize.”

 

His sharp ears caught Aragorn hissing a warning, telling Gimli off for being so callous, but Legolas didn't stay for much more than that, stalking out of the lunchroom, notebook tucked under one arm.

 

His locker had been cleaned of most of the paint, leaving only faint red scratches, completely unintelligible. _The product of wasted time_ , a voice in Legolas' head said traitorously.

 

He pried the old locker open, startled by a flurry of notebook papers falling out from where they'd piled on the inside.

 

They weren't kind notes, of course. Legolas' luck didn't hold very much up beyond a support group called friendship, and he kicked the notes aside to fetch his books and possibly tape the holes closed on the inside of his locker, if that could keep out the badly scribbled insults and written messages of hate.

 

As he was about to do just that, Legolas was surprised by a single, tiny envelope hanging from the vent by a string, ingeniously wrapped around the handle before being inserted into the thin hole.

 

Legolas ripped the envelope from the string, ready to dump the letter with the rest of the paper wastes, when the glimmer of gold script gave him pause.

 

The envelope itself was an off-white card paper, cleanly sealed with wax and with his name written in the finest script Legolas had ever seen in real life. It seemed an awful lot of effort for unwarranted hate mail. Out of curiosity, Legolas opened the letter, pulling the wax seal open and finding thinly-folded parchment within.

 

_Summer seems to pass, so quick_

_That we, in love, lament._

_For summer sees the sun's great rays,_

_Its smiles, so heaven-sent,_

 

_Aggrieved behind a greyer sky._

_A summer's end for sure,_

_How cruel and cold must autumn be,_

_That we now must endure,_

 

_To see the sun so dim-faced._

_To see it so ashamed._

_A wave a-crashing downward._

_A stallion, gravely lamed._

 

_A poem, then, to ease us_

_In summer's passing so_

_In autumn we might see the sun_

_And may it finally know,_

 

_That it is so beloved_

_By this foul poet's heart_

_That every word's a ballad_

_For moments we're apart._

 

_Oh summer may be passing,_

_But sunlight shall endure_

_in knowing that I love it so,_

_Of that, you can be sure._

 

_~from one who loves the Sun_

 

 

“No,” Legolas whispered, clutching the poem to his heart.

 

“No,” _it can't be, it's a trick._

 

But how could something that struck such a chord in Legolas' heart be a trick?

 

How could someone spend so much time on something so beautiful for a lie?

 

\----

_Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness._

_and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar._

_~Neruda, “A Song of Despair”_

 

_\----_

 


	4. The Valley Wanting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gran Galadriel, a reconciliation, and another poem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Old lady Galadriel is my fave. Hope I can write more after this.

Legolas found himself pouring his heart out to Gran later that day, so close to crying if not for the soothing, delicate, long-fingered hand combing through his hair.

 

“They've turned on me, like wolves,” Legolas said, shaking his head. 

 

“Wolves are pack animals. They don't turn on each other,” Gran said serenely. “You give them too much credit. And you say Haldir was involved?” 

 

“Uninvolved, is more like it,” Legolas sighed. “But what did I expect? He's Haldir, after all.” 

 

“Still. Next he comes here I'll give him a talking to. Now,” Gran paused, settling in her seat as Legolas looked up from where his head was resting on her lap. “What else is bothering you?” 

 

Legolas looked down again. “Nothing.”

 

“Why don't you introduce me to your friends?” Gran asked. “Your real friends, of course. I know you're close with Aragorn, and... a Durin boy, isn't that right?” 

 

“Where did you hear that from?” 

 

“Well certainly not from you. Why not bring them along sometime?” 

 

“Why, is my company boring you?” Legolas asked, smirking. 

 

“Don't be reticent,” Gran said. “I've met Aragorn, so bring the Durin boy. Bring a lot of them, if you like. I know Celeborn and the others never liked dealing with Durins, but I always thought they had their own special brand of charm. Working men, oh my!” 

 

“You're incorrigible!” Legolas laughed. 

 

“And you're much too kind and sweet and beautiful to be unhappy, little leaf,” said Gran, holding his hands and smiling encouragingly. Legolas sighed, smiling back softly. 

 

“Tell me about your friends,” said Gran. 

 

“You know about Aragorn, and Arwen,” said Legolas. 

 

“Then tell me about your new Durin friends.” 

 

Legolas shrugged. “Gimli's not new.”

 

“Gimli? I know the name...”

 

“You would,” Legolas laughed. “We've been going at each other for years. Despised him since elementary school. The only reason we're friends now is because Aragorn is with both of us. He's still pretty horrible,” Legolas said, grimacing, “but I trust him a lot more than Haldir's lot.”

 

“I will definitely have a word with Haldir about the company he keeps,” Gran sighed. “Do you like this Durin boy?” 

 

Legolas raised an eyebrow questioningly.

 

“I just said I despised him since elementary school.” 

 

“Well I despised my husband when I was young,” Gran said wryly. “He was a know-it-all. An absolute smartass, you could call him. I despised him for a very long time.” 

 

Legolas perked up. “And then?”

 

“And then eventually we got married,” Gran said, waving a hand. “It's a long story. Wouldn't want to bore you with the details. All I have to say is that we were good for each other and I loved him for every moment of our sixty years together.” 

 

“I never met him,” Legolas said softly, wondering when he had passed on. 

 

“Oh you might sometime. He says he's coming over here—finally! Takes him ages to make decisions like this, but I guess his old bones have finally caught up to him.” 

 

“Oh!” Legolas said, startled. 

 

Gran Galadriel smirked. “He's not dead, little leaf. He's much healthier than me, honestly, but he's always been an old man—even when he was young. When I moved here, he said he'd follow later. By later, he meant three years. Oh, thank god for technology, I see him every day. He'll soon be too old to fly, and I'm certainly too old to fly, so he's coming here.”

 

“I hope to meet him,” Legolas said. 

 

“Ha! No you don't! He's a humourless clod,” said Gran, laughing. She paused thoughtfully. “Actually, now that I think about it, you're perfect for each other.” 

 

“Gran!” Legolas exclaimed, slapping her arm with his notebook as she threw her head back and laughed heartily. 

 

“Remember to bring your friend along next time,” said Gran as Legolas made to leave. 

 

“I don't know,” Legolas said uncertainly. “We're not strangers, but we're not close either.” 

 

“Well then work on getting close,” Gran advised, “and then come call with him when you are. It's a good time to have good friends, judging by what's going on in your life right now.” She grasped his hand comfortingly. “Just remember... you have me to turn to if things go sour, and Aragorn won't turn his back either. And even if I haven't met him, I'm sure this Gimli won't either.” 

 

Legolas surprised himself by agreeing, wholeheartedly, and left Gran with a kiss on the cheek and a lighter heart.

 

* * *

 

 

_I walk the valley wanting_

_With sunlight beating down_

_Where sand is like a mirror_

_Beyond his golden crown._

 

_A brow knit tight in hardship_

_Pink lips pressed tight and still_

_A thoughtful eye, hard-staring_

_From 'far I look my fill._

 

_For now in time of hardship,_

_I offer love afar_

_and wait in silence wanting_

_Behind a door ajar._

 

_And though I speak of nothing,_

_My words are his to keep._

_And though he does not know me,_

_I want, still, just as deep._

 

* * *

 

 

“I'm sorry,” Legolas greeted. 

 

Gimli grunted in reply, not a word in return, but Legolas took it as a good sign. At least he wasn't telling him to leave. He was standing in front of Gimli's house, watching the redhead carve something up on the front porch. His hands were steady, delicate, even for all their thickness. Legolas bit his lip and pretended he wasn't thinking of those fingers and their... uses, and sat down beside him.

 

“What's that?” he asked, his tone making it obvious that he was trying too hard to act like he didn't care. 

 

“I don't know yet,” Gimli answered. 

 

“So you just set to carving something without an end goal?” 

 

“You ever heard of that quote about marble and sculptors?” 

 

Legolas raised an eyebrow.

 

Gimli sighed. “They said that sculptors don't make sculptures out of marble. They just dig out the figure that's trapped within. Like an archaeologist with a fossil. It's the same principle with woodcarving. You find what's already in the wood and then coax it out.”

 

“That sounds... poetic.” 

 

“What it is is frustrating when you can't see what in the hell you're trying to coax out,” Gimli muttered. “This thing's beyond saving anyway. Might have to try again.” 

 

He stood up, brushing wood shavings off his clothes. “What're you doing here anyway?”

 

“Just wanted to return the jacket, properly. And apologize for what I said. I know what you did, with my locker and all. Thank you for that.” 

 

“Well, it wasn't right, turning on you for that. No surprise they'd go at someone miles better than them, jealous little shits that they are.” 

 

Legolas raised an eyebrow. “Was that a compliment I heard?”

 

“Not much of one,” Gimli replied, not missing a beat. “I know sewer rats miles better than the idiots who hang around your cousin—who, by the way, is also a little shit for abandoning you. He's your family, dammit.” 

 

“Yeah, well, Haldir's always been the practical sort,” Legolas said. “And being seen around me right now? Really not practical.” 

 

“Well, screw them.” 

 

“One good thing out of this, though,” Legolas said thoughtfully. “It showed me who my real friends are.” He slung one arm around Gimli's shoulders, almost pulling away when Gimli tensed, but he stayed in position as the redhead relaxed, huffing with exaggerated annoyance as he patted Legolas' hand vaguely. 

 

When Legolas got up to leave, he held his hand out in front of him. Gimli looked at it blankly.

 

“Friends?” Legolas said askance, biting the inside of his cheek nervously. Gimli blinked and looked up, the familiar expression of slightly irritated bemusement alighting on his brow. “Didn't you just say we were? Or does your short term memory not cover the words out of your own mouth?” 

 

“I'm just making sure it's not one-sided,” Legolas said, stiffening as he withdrew his hand. Halfway back, Gimli caught it. His hand was warm and callused, and Legolas loved the feel of the hardened fingertips against his own skin. 

 

“It isn't,” Gimli assured. 

 

Legolas hid the enormous smile on his face as he walked away, the excitement he felt nearly mirroring what he felt when he found the poem in his locker.

 


	5. Durin Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and his work, Legolas and his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is gonna have a Thorinduil (Thorin/Thranduil) sidestory, just so people know :)

In between resolved friendships and read and reread love poems, Legolas' life wasn't pulling punches.

 

He found his father slumped over the counter when he got home, blackout drunk, and Legolas was forced to clean up after him, and clean him up as well, guiding him up the stairs to his room—a too-lonely master bedroom with a wide bed that Legolas had loved to jump on as a child.

 

Thranduil slumped on the bed and Legolas lay down next to him. His father's eyes fluttered open, finding him in the dim light.

 

“Hard day?” Legolas asked quietly. 

 

“We were finally able to close some deals,” Thranduil explained in a drunken drawl. “Replacing power sources for certain parts of the city. Soon, the city will be lit up with power from renewable resources. Green energy conversion.” 

 

“... Isn't that a good thing?” 

 

Thranduil smiled thinly. “Is on paper. But the transition will be hell. Some of the companies we dealt with plan to lay off hundreds of workers to fund the changes, and that's hundreds of families out of a job.”

 

Legolas frowned. His father wasn't heartless, but he wasn't the type to drink himself into a stupor over something he already knew would happen when he started out. There was something else going on.

 

“You met with the unions, didn't you? Thorin Oakenshield,” Legolas said, both a realization and a question. “Is that why—”

 

“Thorin Oakenshield is a self-righteous asshole,” Thranduil proclaimed. “Acting like he's the only one in the right. Makes it worse when he's _actually_ in the right, and I disagree with him anyway, just to spite him.” 

 

Thranduil looked forlornly up at his son. “I'm not a bad man,” he said, almost pathetically soft.

 

“You're not a bad man, dad,” Legolas agreed, tucking his father under the sheets. “Here. Drink some water, and then sleep. I'll just catch up on some homework, then I'll tuck in too.” 

 

“I don't know what I'd... do without you... baby leaf,” Thranduil said between yawns. 

 

Legolas smiled softly, brushing his father's hair out of his face.

 

* * *

 

 

Back in his room, the first thing Legolas did was read and reread another poem that had been left at his locker that day.

 

The parchment on which the clandestine correspondences (if they could be called that, though Legolas decided that if there was no return address then it couldn't  _really_ be called correspondence) were written remained smooth and unwrinkled, folded between the heaviest books in Legolas' bookcase and handled with extreme care.

 

They were the brightest part of Legolas' week, and they came with ever-increasing frequency. Some days, they were all that kept him upright when he was just about ready to lie down on the ground and give up.

 

And he still didn't know who they were from.

 

If he were still friends with the... with those bastards, he'd been calling them lately, he'd have had a pick of people. In fact, the fear that it was one of those was niggling, that he had to deal with an old friend turned admirer or a trick of selfish, malicious assholes who had no consideration whatsoever for him or the time they'd spent as friends.

 

And if it were a stranger... well, that would be an improvement. Not much of one, but it would be.

 

The only other friends Legolas had that weren't of the ones who'd gone and stuck a knife in his back were Tauriel, Aragorn and Arwen, and more recently, Gimli.

 

Tauriel was out of the question—she and Kili were so in love it was sickening. And she didn't write poetry, far as Legolas knew.

 

And as much as he was sure Aragorn wanted to make him feel better, he wouldn't go so far as to write poetry for anyone but his lady love (and it wouldn't be  _good_ poetry, not even remotely). 

 

As for Gimli...

 

He didn't seem the type. “Too good to be true” would be where Legolas would file that possibility under. And Legolas had learned very quickly that life wasn't inclined to hand him too many good turns.

 

Still, letters were one thing. They were dreams, pure and beautiful, but Legolas couldn't imagine being with somebody he didn't really know. The Legolas from before might have—the Legolas who thought that bad things didn't happen to him, that good turns were something he had without consequence. The Legolas who trusted might have trusted this.

 

But the Legolas now... he had to know. Better to know whether or not the dream was a lie.

 

* * *

 

“So you want me to what?”

 

Legolas sighed, biting his lip and keeping his head down humbly. “To find out who's been leaving notes in my locker,” he said.

 

“Is somebody bullying you?” Kili asked, genuine concern in his voice. He was kind, and even if they weren't on the best of terms, Legolas appreciated the kindness.

 

Durins were loyal to a fault to the people they cared about, Legolas realized, and when he'd asked Tauriel for help with his... locker issue, she'd referred him to Kili faster than he could say no. Kili, it seemed, had classes near where Legolas had his locker, and had enough free periods to watch out for whoever it was Legolas was looking for.

 

“No,” Legolas said softly. “I mean... I don't know. The messages themselves aren't... malicious. But the intent might be.”

 

“Oh. Oh!” Kili said, snapping his beefy fingers (Legolas still couldn't figure out how someone with such stumpy digits could be so good at archery) in startled realization.

 

“Alright. I'll make sure someone's got eyes on your locker at all times.”

 

“If it's not too much trouble...”

 

Kili patted his shoulder jovially, the heavy movement making Legolas flinch. Still, he smiled when Kili smiled, and thanked him profusely for the favor.

 

“No problem. Any friend of Tauriel's is a friend of mine, you know? And you—you're practically family to her.”

 

“Really?” Legolas said, startled. They were best friends in the past, sure, but they hadn't exactly been close lately.

 

“Of course! Just because you've been busy with a new crowd doesn't mean she doesn't miss you,” Kili said, his voice softening at the end. “You two should hang out again. It'd be good, I think.”

 

“Thank you, Kili,” Legolas said genuinely.

 

_Durins,_ he mused when they parted.  _Loyal to a fault._

 

It seemed as though friendship with one Durin meant you got the whole lot, not that Legolas was complaining. He just had no idea how to explain his sudden 'Durin connection' to his dad.

 

Thranduil didn't... well, he didn't like Durins. Not the ones he knew anyway. He didn't _hate_ them, not truly, but he much preferred staying as far away from them as possible.

 

It was easy enough—the entire generation of Durins before Fili, Kili, Ori and Gimli seemed to feel the same disdain for Thranduil, and the rivalry had lasted for years and years. They weren't Capulets and Montagues, they weren't about to duel on the streets, and they were reasonable adults—enough that they didn't throw fits when their kids happened to make friends at school (maybe small ones—like the one Thorin threw when he found out Kili and Tauriel were dating, which after a very long lecture from Kili's mother, had Thorin gruffly congratulating Kili on finding such a... tall, and sweet, person to be with).

 

It didn't help that Thranduil's green energy work was in direct conflict with their stable income—jobs at the plant, coal mining, all the kind of work that was old and outdated and harmful in the eyes of conservationists, but was their bread and butter, and what they needed to survive.

 

Between all the professional conflict, the personal conflict between Thranduil and Thorin Oakenshield (head of the clan and Fili and Kili's close uncle) was legendary. It was an involved rivalry that resulted in a lot of shouting matches that echoed all the way up from Thranduil's basement-office to the loft where Legolas liked to stay.

 

The aftermath was kind of sad, kind of funny, depending on how much Thranduil had to drink.

 

Despite the conflict, it was clear Thranduil cared. He cared about the livelihoods of the Durins and others whose work was at risk. He cared about the people he might be hurting just as much as the people he was almost definitely helping with these changes.

 

And when Legolas came home to Thranduil and Thorin Oakenshield having an actual peaceful discussion at the kitchen counter about finding jobs which could almost immediately replace the ones they were losing, he almost felt hopeful.

 

Until he found a letter addressed to him, in the same spidery font and expensive-seeming paper, set neatly on top of their mail.

 

 


	6. The Poet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other side of the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I inserted Bofur/Fili because of important reasons. Hope you guys like this one!

Gimli's life wasn't strictly what you'd describe as “simple”. It came with having a miner for a father, who also happened to work with mechanics and smiths and artisans of all trades—work with being a loose term. They _did_ work together, but more than anything else, they were family. Some of them literally; they could trace their proud line a ways back, to a spectacular figure named Durin, who was a bit of a legend for more reasons than Gimli could count on two hands.

 

They'd been around each other for so long that they had a collective name to them—The Company, to make room for the people who weren't Durins.

 

Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur were family, despite no blood ties, after all. Although if Fili had his way, he might actually tie them to the Durin line by marriage, with his enormously awkward crush on Bofur that had been around for longer than Gimli's hopeless attraction (not to Bofur, no offense to the guy; he was great, but Gimli's “great” was not Fili's, thankfully), ever since they were kids and Bofur had been their sitter, the best one they'd ever had, enough that they didn't grumble about not needing sitters in their younger, more monstrous adolescent years.

 

And you'd think the fact that Bofur was just shy of thirty would dissuade the 18-year-old Fili, but no such luck. Gimli was glad he had friends other than his cousins—he probably would have suffocated himself in the furnace trying to block Fili's flowery speeches out.

 

Gimli, at least, had the decency to keep his flowery speech written, and not spouted at reluctant ears.

 

But anyway.

 

Gimli's life wasn't simple. After all, he spent a good chunk of it with somebody he didn't consider a friend, almost an enemy, who also happened to be his best friend's best friend, who also happened to be the love of his life.

 

Yup.

 

Legolas had always been a constant in Gimli's life, been around longer than most of the people he considered friends. They made their acquaintance with a fist fight and never got over that, and back then, Gimli had gone through more notebooks than was acceptable writing his anger out with all the coherence and emotional stability of an angry middle-schooler. Legolas' name was like a curse on his mouth, and he had at one point deemed the boy his worst enemy, weird hair and braces and enormous brow and all.

 

But then puberty happened, and where Gimli grew hair in every part of his body it was humanly possible to grow hair (and to a certain degree in places he didn't even think were supposed to have hair) and got the stocky, strong-armed Durin build, Legolas got... beautiful.

 

He'd always liked Legolas in a loose, roundabout way, entertaining the idea of being attracted to him but being able to tamp that attraction down just as easily. Until Legolas' puberty decided to bestow upon him a gift of gods and punch Gimli in the gut.

 

Gimli wasn't blind, and it infuriated him to no end that Legolas—the rich boy who looked down on everyone that wasn't part of his precious clique, who was intelligent and active in sports and just generally what made kids popular in school now and successful in life later—could make the little bird trapped in his chest flutter along with the butterflies in his stomach with a simple look, whether disdain or a genuine smile.

 

He didn't get the legendary Legolas smiles until Aragorn. Aragorn was almost mystical in his ability to be popular without quite fitting in to any sort of group. He wasn't handsome the way your average movie star was handsome, but he had this appeal that had people gravitating toward him and looking up to him—a born leader, though he denied it vehemently.

 

The first time Gimli met up with Aragorn on a weekend hangout, only to find Legolas along for the ride, their mutual best friend had cut them off before they could even get a single curse out and told them he was going to lock them in a bathroom together and spend the rest of the day with Arwen if they couldn't get over their issues for once.

 

Given that it was Aragorn who said this, the two wisely played nice, knowing that no threat from Aragorn was an idle one.

 

Even if they hadn't found friendship at the time, they'd certainly found a rhythm. The rapport between them may have consisted largely of insults and jibes, but it was a rapport nonetheless, and it was, to Gimli, as good as things could get. He got Legolas to smile quite a lot, even if it had a sharp edge to it at times, and arguing with Legolas was always an enormously enjoyable experience, leaving them both with necks hot from a particularly passionate verbal sparring session.

 

Gimli knew he was attracted to Legolas. That much was certain, as his hormones and his dick were wont to remind him every so often. His eyes, too. Legolas was gorgeous, and he wasn't blind.

 

He also knew that, despite their not-friendship, Gimli considered Legolas... well, something. Something deserving of his loyalty, or in the very least, deserving of trust. Deserving of support when his highbrow “friends” would inevitably stab him in the back.

 

Which did happen, in the end, much to Gimli's chagrin, and to his remorse.

 

He kept his hands tight on the grips as Legolas wrapped arms around him the night he brought him home, and tried not to think about how it might affect him when Legolas returned his jacket to him the next Monday, his scent still lingering on the material.

 

Sometimes he hated being a teen romantic. Even the little things, most abstract ideas _stirred_ his interest in all the wrong ways. Like the soft banter, without edge, that they exchanged outside of Legolas' home (it was _enormous,_ but he knew Legolas was rich, he didn't bother pointing it out), or the sweet smile the other had given him right before he'd gone in.

 

Gimli was gone—so far gone that he spent Sunday evening writing him a poem.

 

He worried about his timing when he realized there were more people hoping to get a rise out of him than a smile slipping notes into his locker, but when Legolas started to relax, his smiles returning even with the pressures coming at him from all sides, and the way he looked down and blushed at the familiar stationery in his hand when nobody but Gimli was looking, he was heartened.

 

And he wrote, more and more, watching Legolas become more spirited with every poem.

 

Eventually, Gimli found the courage to ride up to Legolas' house one day, dropping a letter into their gilded letterbox and hoping for the best.

 

But the next day, when Legolas' brow nearly overtook his nose in a deep, thoughtful frown, Gimli realized he'd made a mistake.

 


	7. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Legolas finds Durins to depend on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been in an enormous writing rut lately, but I decided to post this chapter (HALF a chapter, if we're gonna be honest) anyway for anybody who's still waiting :) Hopefully it'll galvanize me to continue.

“Are you...” 

 

Gimli didn't know how to phrase the question. On the one hand, they had this rapport of not-at-all subtle affection expressed in veiled insults, something that was easy and entertaining for both of them, something that they did when nothing (at least, nothing too big or too pressing) was wrong.

 

But suspecting the reason for Legolas' stony expression while pretending not to know a thing, Gimli couldn't decide whether he should start with an insult or just ask straight on if Legolas was okay.

 

Legolas' brows shot up in surprise, as if he'd only just realized Gimli was standing there, and sighed, raking slender fingers through his hair.

 

“Are you,” Legolas began the same way, scrunching his nose. “Are you free this Saturday?” 

 

“What?” Well, Gimli didn't expect that, to be sure. Was Legolas asking him to hang out? Or (less likely, in fact, not at all possible) asking him out? Or maybe he needed help with something and finally found the stones to ask. 

 

“I... there's someone I want... no, there's someone who wants to meet you,” Legolas continued uncertainly. 

 

So he was wrong on all counts.

 

“Oh. Um... what?” Gimli said.

 

“Gran. Gran Galadriel,” Legolas explained, looking halfway between exasperated and amused. “She's Arwen's grandmother. She's kind of been mine too, a sort of honorary grandparent since I don't have any of my own. Even if we're not technically related, she's always been like family to me.” 

 

“I can relate,” Gimli said, chuckling. 

 

“Through her, Aragorn and I are kindred adopted cousins,” Legolas continued, smiling wistfully. “She won't take no for an answer, either. Knowing her, if I don't bring you over soon, she might actually hire a chauffeur to break her out of the retirement home she's in.”

 

“She sounds amazing,” Gimli said genuinely. 

 

“She is,” Legolas said eagerly. “And I, well, I visit her every other weekday, and Saturdays when I can. If you're good for this Saturday...” 

 

“Can't,” Gimli said, wincing. “Helping my dad with a barbecue that day. The whole Company together.” 

 

Legolas deflated. “Oh. I'm—”

 

“Friday?” Gimli interrupted before Legolas could torture him with that dejected look of his. As if he hadn't already had enough of seeing the teen suffer. “I'm... I mean I can cancel with Fili and Kili Friday.” 

 

“I wouldn't want to—”

 

“Don't worry,” Gimli said, interrupting again and hoping Legolas wouldn't hold it against him. It was worth it though, to see the sad look on Legolas' face turning annoyed. “They just want to con me into paying for their dinner again. I'm good after school if you are.” 

 

If Gimli wasn't a teenage romantic, then he wouldn't believe that his heart fluttered like a trapped bird in his chest when Legolas beamed.

 

Unfortunately, he was, and it did.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“So...”

 

Legolas sighed. “You didn't catch them, did you?”

 

“Ah, no. Sorry about that. Seems like they're taking an extended vacation from letter dropping,” Kili said sheepishly. 

 

“I was afraid of that,” Legolas said. “I got another one, but this time it came in the mail. I don't think keeping vigil at my locker will yield any results.” 

 

“Dang. So the guy wised up,” Kili said, tapping his fist into his opposite palm. “Honestly though, if we knew what this mystery person was writing to you, it might help narrow things down?” 

 

“I... no, it's... Listen, I don't want to trouble you any more than I already have. But I honestly do appreciate the help.” 

 

“Well... if you think it's fine... I mean with all that's happened, I don't think you should just leave it alone, you know? But,” Kili amended when Legolas threw him a look, “your business is your own. I can respect that. We're still here if you need any more hallway stakeouts.” 

 

Legolas smiled. “I'll keep that in mind. Say hi to Tauriel for me.”

 

Kili shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feigning casualness as he said, “We've, uh. I was wondering... that is... we have this thing on Fridays, kind of a family thing, but Tauriel's been tagging along. If you wanted...”

 

Legolas tried not to look too alarmed at the invitation. It seemed so surreal that they were opening their doors to him, a Greenleaf, to something that was almost certainly (based on what Gimli had said and Kili confirmed) a 'Durin' thing, and it touched him more than he would ever admit, ever.

 

Ever.

 

“I appreciate it,” he said. “I do, I just... I already...” 

 

“Yeah no, it's fine,” Kili said quickly. 

 

“It's not that I—”

 

“Listen, I get it. I don't expect us to be all buddy buddy just because... well, because I'm dating your best friend? Former best friend? But Tauriel really does miss you and—“

 

“Kili!” Legolas interrupted loudly. “Let me finish,” he continued, holding up his hands. “I'd love to. I really would. I just, I already made plans for this Friday to visit somebody really important to me, and it's not something I can really cancel on. But if the invitation is still open next week...” 

 

“No, yeah, of course! You're welcome any time, you know? You're not... Well, you're not alone, okay?” 

 

Legolas didn't think he'd ever need to hear those words, especially not from a Durin, but the way they warmed his chest made him realize just how icy he'd been for a good long while.

 

It was nice, to believe, at least, that he had somebody to depend on.

 


End file.
